


The She-Devil

by TheNoctambulist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1950s, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), I'm Bad At Tagging, Male-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sex Worker Crowley (Good Omens), Why Did I Write This?, aziraphale is trying too hard, female-presenting crowley actually has confidence and has stolen my heart, i accidentally gave crowley confidence (whoops), just kidding good omens is totally a romance what am i talking about, much like the actual book hahaha, sorry it's not a romance, wow who knew aziraphale could actually save crowley and not the other way around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNoctambulist/pseuds/TheNoctambulist
Summary: Crowley turns to some disreputable methods of tempting in the 1950s; lucky for her, Aziraphale is there to help her out.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	The She-Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Me: *is trying to sleep*
> 
> My brain: what if you wrote a 2k fanfic where crowley is a sex worker in the 1950s
> 
> Me: what
> 
> My brain: better yet give crowley oodles of confidence. destroy her character. make her into a confident legend, totally different from her canon idiotic counterpart.
> 
> Me: why
> 
> My brain: you GOTTA
> 
> (my headcanon is that femininity gives crowley a confidence boost bc she looks THAT DAMN GOOD and feels like she can do anything, but that also might be me trying to justify why i wrote crowley so out of character (im sorry))

**_1950s, London_ **

They called her the She-Devil. The Marriage-Ruiner. The Home-Ripper. Famed over London and the surrounding areas for luring men away from their comfortable lives and their pretty wives for a wild night with her. 

She would stalk the bars at night, allowing men to buy her drinks and shower her with affection. Deep V necklines, sharp stilettos, and slender arms were her best friends, and the faithful were her enemies. Her long nails and fingers toyed with men, pulling their strings with only a tug. Her serpentine eyes were filled with fake fire, lit only for the sole purpose of drawing in men who wanted to be burned but had no idea the passion they lusted after was fabricated.

Of course, her name wasn’t really the She-Devil; that was a fond nickname the housewives gave her as they exchanged harsh words and gossip during their tea parties. Antonia Crowley was the name she most commonly signed at hotels and bars, penned in a loopy script. 

It was said she loved her fine wines but was also partial to gin. She wore snakeskin so tight it seemed molded to her figure. Her hair was long and wavy, and trailed behind her in shiny, flaming, auburn glory. She wore large sunglasses nearly all of the time, and acted like a celebrity fallen from grace. Her teeth were rumored to be shiny and sharp, an attribute that only added to her predatory nature. 

Sure, they called her the She-Devil, glorifying what she did to the unsatisfied family men of London. She, however, described her career in simpler terms. She knew she was a prostitute, and she was damn good at it too. (Of course, no reputable family would dare use such foul language at afternoon tea, so she remained the She-Devil on the tongues of those who despised her.)

It was these rumors the angel Aziraphale heard and decided to act upon. Tonight he found himself seated at one of the She-Devil’s favorite bars, hoping she’d grace the place with her notorious presence. He had tried his best to look like a potential customer. He’d lit a cigar but had abstained from smoking it. He’d untied his bowtie, much to his chagrin; he was an angel with standards, after all, and couldn’t abide looking messy. 

He had ordered one drink to keep up appearances, and he sipped it slowly and waited. He hoped she would show; he thought he put a lot of effort into being stealthy, and didn’t want it to go to waste. 

It was nearing midnight. Aziraphale was about to head back to his bookshop when an arm draped over his shoulder, long nails nearly piercing his ivory blazer.

“Hello, handsome,” a voice whispered in his ear. He heard the slithering swish of a gown rustling as the wearer pulled it under herself as she sat. He turned and was met with the sultry gaze of a woman with a face done up to perfection. Her mouth was poised in a perfect Cupid’s bow, her cheekbones were high, her nose pronounced, brows arched, lashes long-- it was as if she had been sculpted by a higher being. Her yellow eyes glanced over her sunglasses, and Aziraphale felt his cheeks begin to heat from their intensity. He was looking into the face of the infamous She-Devil, or as Aziraphale knew her:

“Crowley!” he exclaimed, brushing off the temptress’s arm. “Drop the act. I thought it was you, but had to know for certain…” He trailed off as he met Crowley’s gaze again, now much less intense and all the more playful.

“Fine, Angel,” Crowley said, smirking. “Though it would be nice if you played along just this once.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He had something to say, but Crowley had already turned to the bartender and was in the middle of seducing him into getting her a free drink. He waited until Crowley had a cocktail before continuing. 

“How did you know it was me?”

Crowley choked on her swindled drink. “Pardon? Did you really ask how _I knew it was you_? Angel, you are skilled at many things, but stealth is not one of them.”

Aziraphale was put down by this. “I thought I did a rather good job.”

“I appreciate your effort,” Crowley said with mock gallance. “Though it’s hard to trick a trickster. It never would have worked. I could smell you as soon as I got close.”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened at Crowley’s last comment. “You know what I _smell-_ ”

Crowley continued rather hurriedly, cutting Aziraphale off. “Anyways, to what do I owe this visit?”

Aziraphale straightened himself. “Well. I came to discuss your- _ahem_ \- recent _exploits_. I must say, this is rather unlike you.”

“Mmm?” Crowley paused mid-sip. “How so?”

“I’ve never known you to be very much of a _field worker_. I always thought you waited until the humans stirred up some trouble on their own, and you just swooped in and took credit for it.”

“That usually is how I roll, yeah,” Crowley commented, staring sadly into her drink. “Unfortunately, the fellows downstairs have got me working double time. I _thought_ starting the war would have given me at _least_ ten years of break, but noooooo. The second I turn in the paperwork it’s all ‘Get back up there, Crowley!’ and ‘Tempt some folks, Crowley!’” Crowley had made several mocking hand gestures to go along with the imitations she did of her superiors, and had set down her drink. She picked it up again and took a sip. 

Aziraphale took Crowley’s pause to ask a question of his own. “Wait, _you_ started that monstrosity?”

“Huh? Oh, the war?” Crowley waved her hand, smirking. “That was the humans on their own. I just took the credit. You know, so I could get a break.” She drank from her cup. “And see how that turned out. It’s like they _want_ me to get a promotion, or something.” She scoffed. 

“So you’re doing this on hell’s orders?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not exactly. All they told me to do was stir up some trouble, you know, lead a few souls to hell and have fun with it. ‘Spect they’re still upset about the nineteenth century and all the tempting I missed.” She sipped pensively. “Though that nap was _worth_ it.”

“So… you decided to cause a spike in divorce rates? What on Earth could compel you to do that?” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide with questions.

Recently, Crowley had entered a spiteful phase. She suspected it was brought on by her recent visit to hell. The reason she had chosen to prey after love was that she needed a way for her to relieve her angst about pining for a couple thousand years. Of course, she wasn’t going to tell Aziraphale that.

Instead, Crowley shrugged. “Seemed easy enough. Can’t say I like the sex, but it’s over quickly, most of the time. And I get free drinks.” She paused, thinking. “You know, I think that humans glorify sex so much. It’s not all that great. Just a lot of”--she made a lewd action--“and the like. And it serves virtually no purpose.” She raised her arms in defeat. “Humans will forever remain confusing in their own ways.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. _He_ knew the purpose sex served, but knew Crowley did not, and did not deem this the correct time to educate her on the wonders of reproduction. “Well, I can’t say I approve of what you’re doing.”

“Course not. You’re an _angel_. Enough said.”

“A quick tip: I don’t think you’ll have much luck here tonight. The amount of love in this room is enough to make the worst monster a good person.” Aziraphale tugged his jacket lapels smartly and realized that there was no point in keeping his bowtie undone now that Crowley had found him, so he retied it with practiced ease.

“Who’s saying I’m on the job tonight anyways? Besides,” Crowley added, drawing in closer, “how do you know I haven’t already marked my target?” She raised her eyebrows. “He could be sitting right in front of me…” Crowley whispered the last five words and bit her lip. Her eyes were alight with fire, real fire this time, taken from the depths of her heart.

“ _Do_ drop the act,” Aziraphale admonished. He was tired, and wanted to go back to his store, but a small part of him felt the need to stay. His drink wasn’t finished, and although the situation wasn’t ideal, he still liked seeing Crowley. 

“Oh, this isn’t an act, Angel.” Crowley’s voice turned husky. Her eyes smoldered. Aziraphale blushed scarlet.

“Well, see here-- my goodness, I really-- dear, you can’t--,” Aziraphale stammered, only to stop when Crowley burst into peals of laughter. 

She snorted. “My, your feathers ruffle so _easily_!” Aziraphale stewed in silence and pouted.

Noting the disgruntled look on Aziraphale’s face, Crowley’s laughter died down. “Oh, come off it. If it means that much to you, I’m sorry.” 

Aziraphale stood abruptly. “Well, I’ll be leaving.” His unfinished drink remained, sweaty, on the counter.

“Nonono! Don’t go, Angel, I didn’t mean anything by it, really. Here. I’ll give you a ride. Come on.” Crowley leaped up from her spot, dress trailing behind her. Her heels clacked on the wooden floor. She gently placed her manicured hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “What do you say?”

Aziraphale looked away, plainly reluctant. Crowley found his gaze again and stared deeply into Aziraphale’s blue eyes. 

“Oh, _all right_. But no speeding, and-”

“Fantastic! Let’s go.” Crowley hooked her arm into Aziraphale’s and dragged him outside, to where the Bentley was parked. 

Soon they sat in the car, not talking, listening to swinging jazz through the sound system. Crowley kept her eyes trained on the road. Aziraphale found his eyes trained on Crowley. 

It was strange, Aziraphale thought. Crowley was inexplicably attractive behind the wheel. Perhaps it was the way her teeth snagged on her lip in concentration, or the slightly lazy arch of her spine as she buried herself in the seat, or the tiny taps she often made with her nails on the steering wheel. She was focused and spaced out at the same time, driving being such a second nature that she could live out her daydreams in color while doing it. 

Aziraphale shifted in his seat and wiped his hands on his trousers. He cleared his throat. “We _are_ going to the bookshop, are we not?”

“Mmm?” Crowley shook out her head, long locks bouncing. “Oh, right. Bookshop. Autopilot, y’know.” She slammed her toe on the gas pedal and turned the wheel. The Bentley spun around and shot forward in the opposite direction. 

Aziraphale pitched to the side before bracing his hands on the seat. “Crowley! You can’t do that!”  
Crowley scoffed, taking both hands off the steering wheel and waving them in dismissal. “Oh, no one will die.”

Aziraphale clenched his teeth. “Put your hands back on the wheel, for heaven’s sake! And slow down! Goodness. God knows that if you don’t kill anyone on the street, you’ll kill us. Or-- discorportate us, I suppose.” He shuddered. “We wouldn’t very much like _that_ happening, would we?”

“I don’t know, Angel,” Crowley replied, easing her press on the gas. “I’d very much like to be discorporated. Think it would really add some spice to life.”

“Oh, don’t talk like that. I’m fairly certain it’s no picnic, being discorporated.” 

“Sarcasm, Angel. Ever heard of it? Anyways, here we are.” Aziraphale glanced out of the passenger window and was met with the view he saw out of his front window every morning.

“Well. Thank you, Crowley.” He exited the Bentley and brushed himself off. “I appreciate it.”

“Ta-ta, Aziraphale.” She waggled her fingers and smiled sadly. Turning back to the road, Crowley sighed. 

Aziraphale observed his companion’s gloomy attitude. “Ah, Crowley. Wait one moment.”

Crowley looked up expectantly, peering over her sunglasses. “Course. What’s wrong? You leave a book in here?”

“What? No.” Aziraphale shook his head, bringing his idea back into focus. “So, you’re a demon.”

“I know that,” Crowley stated. “If that’s all, then I should be off.”

“I wasn’t finished.” Aziraphale glared at Crowley. “You’re a demon. I’m an angel. It is my heavenly, ethereal duty to vanquish you.”

“After all we’ve been through together? We’ve been going at this for six _thousand_ years.” Crowley looked shocked, and then shrugged. “Well, if you must. Just please don’t do it in the car. It would ruin the seats.” She clicked her tongue. “I swear, if you wanted to douse me with holy water you only needed to ask.” Crowley got out of the Benley and leaned on the hood. “Well. Vanquish away.”

“What? Don’t be a doddypoll! I would never-- I can’t believe you’d think that, my dear.” 

Crowley raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. “Well in that case, what exactly do you mean by vanquish?” Her raised eyebrows became lowered, playing up her suggestive innuendo. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Aziraphale blushed. “I most certainly am not.” He cleared his throat. “I’m saying that you should go to hell. Tell them that you tried so hard to succeed, but were tragically stopped by the angel Aziraphale. And for heaven’s sake, take your break. God knows we all need one.”

Crowley slowly brightened. “You mean it? Oh, Angel…” Crowley struggled for words. “Than-”  
“Don’t mention it,” Aziraphale replied curtly. “And I mean that. Who knows what heaven would say if they ever found me helping a _demon_.”

“‘Spect they’d be rather pleased. After all, you _are_ putting a halt to my _dastardly_ deeds.” Crowley winked. 

Aziraphale found himself grinning. “Right. Well then. I’ll be off.” He turned sharply on his heel and paraded toward his bookshop.  
“Angel!” Crowley called after him. “We should grab a bite sometime! I owe you one!”

Aziraphale didn’t reply and continued walking. He didn’t look back until he heard the crackling of gravel under tires, a sign that the Bentley was gone, and with it, Crowley. 

He sighed. Out of all the feelings he expected to be feeling, sadness was not one of them. It had taken all of his willpower not to reply to Crowley. He was scared that if he had gone back in that moment, he would have never returned. And to think of the paperwork involved if an angel ran off with a demon.

Aziraphale entered his bookshop and immediately made a cup of tea to clear his thoughts. As he breathed in the soothing chamomile scent, he found himself strangely satisfied. He had rescued a demon, but not just _any_ demon. He had rescued _Crowley_ . After years and years of Crowley coming to _his_ rescue, years and years of Crowley helping _him_ out of tight spots, he was finally able to do the same for her. And that made _all_ the difference. 


End file.
